For Her Husband's Sake

8.15 pm, The Bungalow

"That was exquisite," said Prem, smiling approvingly at the panting duo that lay, arms entwined, chests, bellies and pubic regions still in copious contact, on his lavish queen-sized bed. The male was a good-looking athletic young man of 18. More than his body, his youthful face was a dead giveaway that he was significantly younger than the female. This is not to say that the woman looked over the hill -- far from it. Had she looked like most other 41 year-old women, she would not have found herself forced to make this choice. If you could call it a choice....

***

The woman was, to put not too fine a point on it, a beauty. In her youth she had made more than a few hearts and cocks flutter with her angelic features, large, innocent dark brown eyes and fair complexion. Almost never had a blemish crossed her flawless light brown Indian skin. She was irresistible and had known it almost as long as she had been alive. Known it since she had known that men cherish beauty in a woman, and very little else. Seen it, felt it, in the naked hunger in the eyes of boys and men who had clumsily tried to woo her. Known it in the reproachful gazes middle-aged wives gave their husbands when they caught them staring at her lush, youthful breasts - breasts that she exposed as much as she could without inviting the wrath of her protective Indian parents.

Her father, bless his soul, used to get particularly distraught when she strutted around in her short skirts, leaving her calves, knees, even a hint of her thighs exposed to the servants. "My child, you are a beautiful girl, and that is the greatest gift a woman can be born with in this world. But if you're not careful, your beauty could become a curse, and your father knows this," her mother used to tell her, explaining her husband's distress at his daughter's attire when she went out with her 'friend' to the movies, or visited her tutor's house with her blouse cut a little too low. Her father's fears would been justified on both these occasions, though -- for his daughter, classic Indian beauty, had an appetite for sex that Indian women are simply forbidden to...

She had a protective father; that was for sure. But even in his eyes, in those rare moments when he dropped his guard a little and saw his daughter revealed in front of him as not his little girl, but a woman, she had seen that same fire. And then she had known...

Her father was a good man, and had tried to make up for these lapses by turning to Lord Krishna, losing himself in his meditations, trying to erase those wicked, forbidden thoughts about his daughter that grew even more frequent as she matured and became a mother at 23, and went from exquisite adolescent beauty to voluptuous young mother, the pride of her successful business executive husband and the envy of his friends.

Her husband Raj Chopra knew that he had struck gold when he managed to hit it off with Aarti, the most popular girl in college, widely hailed as the finest piece of ass to have adorned the classrooms of that venerated institution; the girl who hardly seemed to have the time to study, yet always finished near the top of her class. There is an unfortunate tendency in Indian society to attribute whatever academic and professional success women enjoy to their looks, yet in this case the male chauvinist pigs would have been dead right, as the satisfied cocks of several professors would surely have attested, had cocks been endowed with the ability to express gratitude for the expert attentions of young female students.

Anyway, Aarti had never been particularly interested in a career, knowing that she would never need one to support herself. This is not to say that she married her husband just for financial security. She was crazy about her husband. He was her companion and her lover. She loved him and adored his cock and his fucking, and she adored even more the beautiful boy that had resulted, and who had grown to be strapping young lad of 18.

The approach of middle age had not inhibited Aarti as a sexual being, and she took good care of herself and her gorgeous figure. Married or not, being attractive to the male gaze was a part of herself she was going to hold on to as long as she could.

Although her husband's long business trips forced her to look outside marriage from time to time to satisfy her voracious sexual appetite, she was always discreet: The young lads of 18 and 20 who delightedly attended to this stunning MILF did not need to be told twice that if they shot their mouths off about their sexual exploits, Aarti's pussy would be forever closed to them.

***

Aarti would have been the first to admit she was not a saint, but if she had been informed that evening of just what she would be doing less than a couple of hours later, she would have said that karma was being pretty fucking harsh on her.

***

6 pm, The Chopra Residence

Aarti was bored. Her husband, Raj, had not responded on his cell phone when she had called to ask when he would be back. Work had been particularly taxing on Raj lately, and they hadn't been having much sex. Even when they did, Raj had been too tired to really satisfy his wife.

When their son was asleep in the next room and Aarti reached across and slipped her hand down her husband's shorts, caressing his dick, Raj would either turn away, saying, "Not tonight, jaan," or let out what sounded like a sigh of resignation, lie on top of his wife of 19 years, slip off her nightdress, and slide into her. Just when Aarti was getting worked up, her heart rate accelerating, her hips beginning to get into the rhythm of her husband's thrusts, her husband would tense up, back arched, and deposit his semen into his partner. And then he would roll off without a word. No lingering post-sex cuddling, no looking deep into her eyes and telling her how much he loved his jaan. It had been ages since her pussy had been treated to the attentions of her husband's tongue.

These past few weeks, it was almost as though she had become a sleeping bag for her husband. Sleeping bags. Where was it she had read that most Indian men treated their wives like sleeping bags? It seemed her marriage was fast turning into an Indian cliché.

She didn't really blame her husband though. She knew her husband would never be unfaithful to her, and Lord Krishna knew his job had been a killer lately. With their son, Vikram, due to graduate from school in four months, the pressure to save up enough money and get Vikram a good education, maybe even send him to the United States, was definitely on.

Vikram. If there was one thing Aarti loved even more than sex or her husband, it was her son, her beta. At 18, he was physically near his peak, and took after his father in his built. He stood 5 feet 10 inches tall, and carried his athletic physique with the confidence of a boy who knew he looked good. He had inherited his mother's angelic face and his dreamy brown eyes had made more than one young woman go week in the knees. He had never had a steady girlfriend, though he had made out on a number of occasions and even received oral sex from a classmate once. But he hadn't 'gone all the way' yet.

"Umm, I've done... you know... stuff, but I... haven't done it yet," had been his embarrassed reply when Aarti had pressed him on the subject. Vikram and Aarti were close, always had been, but like most sons, Vikram was a tad shy when it came to discussing sexual matters with his mother. Aarti thought it was adorable how her son's cheeks went all red whenever she broached the subject of intercourse, and she derived a peculiar guilty pleasure watching her beloved boy squirm in front of his mommy.

In some of her more unguarded ruminations, she had found herself wondering if there might not be more to Vikram's embarrassment than the modesty of a son. She had on more than one occasion caught her son staring at her. He would leer at her generous bust and her perfectly rounded calves after kissing his mother good morning when she was in the kitchen, still in her nightgown, and quickly turn his gaze away when Aarti looked directly at him. However, she had never reprimanded him.

It was always refreshing to be reminded she was beautiful, even if the reminder came in the form of a sizeable bulge in her offspring's shorts. Besides, like most Indian mothers, Aarti was fairly intimate with her son, and it seemed inevitable that her son's raging adolescent hormones would occasionally let this emotional intimacy spill over into his sexual thoughts.

***

Aarti happened to be thinking about her son at that moment, half-lying on her bed in pajama bottoms and a tank top and flipping through the pages of an inane Bollywood magazine, when her cell phone rang.

It was Raj. Expecting he was calling to inform he would be working late yet again, she sighed, reached out and answered the phone.

"Hi, honey."

"This is not your husband, bitch."

"Hey, who is this?"

"Shut up and listen. We have your husband. If you want to see him alive, listen very carefully to me."

Aarti gasped. She calmed herself with a deep breath.

"Go on," she said, unable to keep her voice from quivering.

"Firstly, no police business, you understand? It's pointless, and will fuck things up for me, for you and especially your darling husband. Now, take down this address." The voice dictated an address on the outskirts of the city.

"I want you and your son here by --"

"My son? Why-"

"Don't interrupt me, you cunt. I was saying, I want you and your son at that address in one and a half hours. Don't be late. Also, there is to be a dress code for our little rendezvous. You are to wear that red halter top and mini-skirt your husband so loves --"

"But how do you-"

"Next time you interrupt, I swear I'll carve your husband's balls out. Your husband told me. I asked. Wear a black tank top, the mini-skirt, and stiletto sandals. Also, a black bra and panties. Your son will wear faded jeans, blue t-shirt and sneakers. He can wear whatever underwear he likes. No jewellery, watches, wallets or cell phones, both of you. Understood?"

"Yes. But why-"

"Consider it one of the many whims of your husband's abductor. I'm sending you a photo of your husband, in case you doubt me. It's an hour and a half's drive from your place." He hung up.

Aarti sat up straight on the bed, her back unusually straight and her mouth half open in a bewildered gasp. Too many thoughts were running through her mind, threatening to overwhelm her. She tried to calm herself using her usual method - thinking happy thoughts. Unfortunately, her happy thoughts involved her family and thinking of her wedding day only brought thoughts of her husband, bound and helpless in her mind's eye: her husband being tortured and killed, the chopped up pieces of his body being delivered to her by mail...

She slapped herself hard, bringing herself back to reality. She checked her cell phone. True to his word, the bastard had sent a photo of her husband. He wasn't bound or gagged, and did not appear to be in any physical discomfort. Two masked men with guns flanked him on both sides though, in what appeared to be a fairly large, well-lit room.

Whoever this guy was, he meant business. But what did he want from her? He didn't ask for any money - Just her presence and her son's presence in specified attire at a certain place at a certain time. Maybe they would get further instructions once they reached the address.

Or maybe there was another explanation. One in which her own extraordinary attractiveness and her son's good locks were of salience. Aarti was not naïve, and she knew that people had fetishes...

For an instant, an image of her naked son pumping his dick into her, her legs wrapped around his ass, her breasts crushed against his broad chest, his eyes boring deep into his eyes, his boyish features twisted with indescribable ecstasy as he fucked his mother missionary style, flashed through her mind. For a second, her whole body seemed to be on fire, and then it was gone. She felt giddy, and could feel the beginning of sweat forming on her forehead. What the fuck was wrong with her?

***

Vikram was a good boy, but like all teenage boys, he had a dick that demanded attention. And giving his dick proper attention was exactly what he was doing when his mother received that fateful call. Blissfully unaware of happenings in the room adjacent to hers, he was sitting in front of his laptop, erect cock in hand.

Though he had enjoyed making out with girls his age, he had never attempted to complete intercourse with them. He wanted his first experience to be memorable and somehow none of the girls he had fooled around with, gorgeous though they might have appeared to most, had made the cut. When he finally had sex he wanted it to be with an alluring, voluptuous woman. Someone not merely attractive but exquisitely beautiful. Someone like his mother...

He was usually capable of shutting off these sinful thoughts when they came to him. Sometimes, though, he would allow the fantasy to take over, and log on to one of the many porn sites offering the sight of 40-somethings debasing themselves in front of the camera with a dude half their age. He would open one of these videos, usually one with an Indian MILF. As the scene unfolded, his cock would grow stiff, and he would wrap his palm around it and start to masturbate. He allowed his imagination to take over, imagining that the curvaceous woman of forty on his screen was not some unknown chick fucking for money but his beloved mother. At this point his penis would become even larger and he would come close to the brink.

It was exactly at this point that he heard his mother knock on his door. Had it been even a second later, he would have reached the point of no return and been forced to clean up in a hurry. Thankfully, that wasn't necessary. He hurriedly closed the porn site that had been open on his screen, gathered his sizeable penis inside his underwear and walked to the door.

"Hi, mom."

"Beta, something's come up."

Vikram looked up at his mother's face and immediately knew something was wrong. Worry was writ large on her face. Her brows were furrowed, her forehead was sweaty, and her stricken expression conveyed that bad news was coming.

"It's about your father. He's been kidnapped."

"What?!?"

"Yes, it's true. And your kidnapper wants the two of us to meet him in two hours' time."

"Let's call the police! They will take care of him."

"I don't think that's a good idea. The man sounded like he meant business, and he sent a photo." She showed her son the picture of his father the man had sent.

He looked up. "What does he want from us? Money?"

"Maybe. Or... yeah, it's got to be money."

"But it doesn't make sense! I mean, we're well off and everything, but we're hardly the richest people in the city."

"I know, beta. Now is not the time to think of these matters. It's one and a half hour's drive to the place at rush hour, which leaves us fifteen minutes to get going. He also said that you are to wear a blue t-shirt, faded jeans and sneakers."

"What the hell for? Do you have to wear the same clothes too?"

"Um...no. He told me to wear something else. Anyway, get dressed. I'll go and get ready too."

With that she left him staring bewildered after her.

***

7.30 pm, The Bungalow

The Corolla pulled up the driveway of the house the mother-son duo had been instructed to arrive at. The house in question was a spacious bungalow in one of the more deserted parts of the outskirts of the city. The street was a cul-de-sac, and none of the 4 or 5 other houses there appeared to be inhabited. Just the sort of place, in other words, where activities of an illegal nature could be conducted without interference.

The driver killed the engine, and a pair of shapely legs, clad in a very fetching miniskirt, leg muscles accentuated by the stilettos, emerged from the driver's side. The driver's torso was covered in a tight-fitting, low-cut halter top that finished several inches above her belly and exposed a good part of her. Simultaneously, this strikingly attractive woman's very handsome son dressed in typically boyish clothes came out from the other side. Inside the bungalow, Prem smiled. They looked perfect, and the anxiety on the woman's face gave him a hard-on. He gave a signal and the front door was opened.

"Welcome, dears," Prem positively gushed, proffering Aarti a handshake . "Where's my husband?" Aarti ignored the outstretched hand.

"All in good time, love. Please come in first."

A short, scruffy-looking man with a pistol shoved under his belt came forward and frisked mother and son. He took his time with Aarti, running his hands down her calves, slipping them under her skirt to massage her thighs, even squeezing her fleshy breasts, before appreciatively squeezing her arms.

"All good, sir," he said, his leering still gaze fixed on Aarti.

"Great." Prem led them into a spacious living room and gestured them to sit on a sofa.

"Your husband is in this house. Don't bother, he can't hear us from here," stopping Aarti with her mouth still half-open.

"Now, I want the two of you to do me a favour," Prem went on.

"Meaning?" asked Vikram.

"I think your mother has a pretty good idea, and so do you, I fancy."

Vikram gulped. Like his mother, he was no fool, and his apprehension had been building ever since he had seen his mother step out of her room in the kind of outfit street whores usually wore. When he had asked her why she thought his father's abductor wanted her dressed like that, she had merely shrugged, but her eyes had betrayed her fear.

Prem continued. "I want the two of you to perform. Sex, that is. I want you, mother and son, to fuck each other's brains out while I watch."

"What! Are you crazy? You expect me to ... have sex... with my own son?"

"Spare me the outrage. You know you have to do what I tell you, or your husband never sees the light of day again. Besides, you might enjoy it."

Vikram cast his eyes downward, his lips trembling. Next to him, his mother cut a similarly bleak figure.

"Come on, you two. It's not like you have any other option. You're going to fuck no matter what, so you might as well try to enjoy it a little. Follow me."

Both mother and son, along with the armed man who had frisked them, followed Prem into a bedroom. Vikram and Aarti both bore stricken looks on their faces. The armed man, on the other hand was grinning from ear to ear, and staring at the sluttily dressed 41 year-old had caused a tent to form in his trousers. Aarti recoiled at the prospect of being naked with her son under the lecherous gaze of these creeps.

In front of them was the bed they were to commit the unholy act on. Queen-size, with white sheets and a lush pillow, it was the kind of bed that honeymooning couples used for their nightly frolics. That's exactly why Prem had chosen it for the night's main event.

"I'm guessing I'll have to choreograph you two lovebirds a little bit at the start. After that, unless you want my assistant here to join in the fun, I want you two to get into it in all earnest. Understood?"

Vikram looked extremely nervous, like he might cry at any moment. A reassuring glance from his mother made him nod his head and bite his lip.

Aarti nodded at Prem's instructions. She had been dreading this moment, but right now she felt strangely calm. She knew that this was not her fault; there was nothing she could have done to avoid this moment, and now that she was in this situation, she found herself accepting her fate with composure. She could do worse than her son when it came to finding a sexual partner, a small voice in a dark corner of her mind told her. What she was really worried about was how Vikram would pull through. Would he be damaged for life and become like one of those serial rapists whom you later found out were abused when they were young? Her son might be an adult, but he was a virgin. And here he was, about to have sex for the first time - with his mother.